Chapter 8 #2
Ivy stands in the center of the dance floor, hands on her hips, surveying the room like a soldier inspecting a secured perimeter. She's sweating. Her hair has slipped loose from the pencil. There's a faint smudge of dust on her nose.
I approach from behind with two bottles of water and press one gently against her arm.
She startles, then relaxes when she sees me. She takes the bottle and drinks deeply, then forces herself to slow.
"Careful," I say, echoing her words from the hospital. "Don't chug."
She lowers the bottle and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "Did the AV team fix the mic?"
"Yes. No duct tape."
"Good." She exhales, scanning the room. "We pulled it off."
"You pulled it off," I correct. "I mostly pointed at people and made them nervous."
She turns to face me. Her gaze drops to my navy sweater, the sleeves pushed down now, my collar open, the unmistakable fatigue on my face.
"You take direction well," she says. "For a CEO."
"I have many underappreciated talents."
We stand there, the moment stretching, warm with shared effort.
"You should change," I say quietly. "Guests arrive in forty-five minutes."
Her eyes drop to herself. My shirt. The shorts. Her bare feet.
"Oh god," she says. "I look like a frat boy."
"You look—"
I stop. I was going to say competent. Impressive. Effective.
But looking at her now, flushed with victory, unguarded in the middle of all this carefully curated perfection, the truth lands before I can intercept it.
"You look beautiful," I say.
The words sit between us, unplanned and volatile. Ivy freezes. Her breath hitches. She studies my face, searching for irony, for a tell. She doesn't find one. Color rises in her cheeks.
"Protecting the investment," she murmurs, more to herself than to me. "Maintain asset integrity."
"Right," I say, stepping back, because if I don't, I'm going to do something reckless, like brush the dust from her nose or kiss her.
"Protecting the investment."
"I have to go," she says, suddenly breathless. "I need to shower. I need to be the fiancée."
She turns and heads for the service exit, her bare feet soft against the parquet floor. I watch her disappear. I don't care about the deal. I don't care about the board.
I want to know what she's going to wear tonight.
At 6:00 PM, the doors open. At 6:30 PM, the room is full.
The event is a success. The amber lighting does exactly what Ivy promised. Everyone looks tan, rich, and impossibly pleased with themselves. Diamonds catch and throw light. The room glows.
I stand near the bar, nursing a scotch, scanning the room for threats.
Then, I see her.
Ivy enters from the garden doors. She is wearing a green silk dress. One that clings and drapes like liquid money. She spots me and weaves through the crowd.
"Status report?" she asks, reaching me in a cloud of vanilla and rose. "Is Betty happy? Is the raw bar staying cold?"
"Betty is taking credit for everything," I say. "Which means she's ecstatic."
Ivy grins, a flash of genuine humor that vanishes the second a shadow falls over us.
"Brooks," a voice oily with false warmth says. "And the lovely... fiancée, I presume?"
I stiffen. Royce Aston. He looks like a caricature of a tycoon, white mustache, tuxedo slightly too tight, holding a martini like a weapon.
"Royce," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "I didn't know you were coming."
"I wouldn't miss it," Royce says. His gaze lingers on the bruise on my temple, covered with concealer but still visible.
"We were all so... concerned when we heard about the incident.
Good to see you upright, boy. I hope you're up for the vote.
It's a lot of pressure for a man in your. .. fragile condition."
The insult is wrapped in concern, but the threat is clear: I know you're weak.
I open my mouth to respond, but Ivy beats me to it. She doesn't bristle. She doesn't glare. She beams.
"Oh, Mr. Aston, isn't it?" She extends a hand, her smile dazzle-bright. "Brooks has told me so much about you. You're on the hospital board, right? The one who called his father about his admission?"
Royce blinks, caught off guard. "I—yes. I felt it was my duty to—"
"I'm not an expert on these things," Ivy says, her tone light and curious, "but isn't sharing patient information without consent against HIPAA? I could be wrong."
Royce's face goes pale. "I was acting in a personal capacity. As a family friend. Not in any official—"
"It is so refreshing," Ivy interrupts smoothly, "to meet a man of your generation who is still so.
.. involved. Ones who care so much." She says it like it's a synonym for meddlesome, but her tone is pure sugar.
"Most board members are content to just cash the checks," she continues, looping her arm through mine and leaning into me affectionately.
"But you? You're in the weeds, aren't you?
Checking intake logs, making phone calls.
.. It's tireless. I keep telling Brooks he needs to appreciate that kind of attention to detail. It's almost maternal."
Royce's mustache twitches. He pulls his hand back. "I care about the stability of the company, young lady."
"And we love that about you," Ivy coos. She tilts her head, studying him with concern. "Though, you look a little flushed, Royce. Is the heat getting to you? I know these late nights can be taxing when you're... settled."
She lands the word settled like a polite death sentence. You are old. You are tired. Go away.
Royce straightens up, bristling. "I am fine."
"Of course you are," she says, soothingly. "But please, don't let us keep you standing. I'm sure there's a chair somewhere with your name on it. We wouldn't want you to overexert yourself worrying about Brooks. He has plenty of stamina."
She does it again, a perfect, terrifying, society-wife performance.
Royce looks at her. He looks for the insult, but he can't get a handle on it because it's greased with so much politeness. He clears his throat, adjusting his tie.
"Enjoy the party, Brooks," Royce mutters, his eyes cold. "Lovely to meet you, my dear."
"Oh, the pleasure was all mine," Ivy calls after him as he retreats into the crowd.
She watches him go, keeping the smile plastered on her face until he is safely out of earshot. Then, without moving her lips, she drops the act.
She takes a sip of my scotch. "He's tacky. He wears too much cologne, and he looks at you like he's trying to calculate your scrap metal value."
I stare at her. "You just called a senior board member 'maternal' and 'elderly' to his face, and he thanked you for it."
Ivy shrugs, handing me back the glass. "That's the trick, Brooks. If you serve the poison in a crystal glass, they usually drink it."
She turns her gaze back to me, her eyes sharp. "He's the leak, isn't he? The one creating the 'instability' narrative?"
"Yes."
"Thought so," she says. "He was trying too hard to make you look sick. It's a deflection. He's the one sweating."
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Dad
The board is impressed with the stability. Keep it up.
I look at Ivy. She's currently waving at a donor across the room, the picture of innocent charm.
"Ivy."
She turns back to me. "Yeah?"
"Dance with me."
"Brooks, I'm working. I need to make sure the entrée service—"
"The staff has it." I tip my head toward the room. "You just gelded Royce Aston in under sixty seconds. You've earned a break."
I take her hand and pull her onto the dance floor.
She lets me lead her into the center of the room. The band is playing something slow, old-fashioned. I pull her close. Closer than necessary. My hand settles on the bare skin of her lower back. She stiffens for a second, then melts.
We move together. She fits perfectly against me. Her head tucks under my chin. The tension leaves her body, the frantic energy of the day dissolving into the music.
"You saved the day," I say into her hair.
"It's what I do," she whispers back. "I fix things."
"You fixed us."
She pulls back slightly to look at me. Her eyes are wide, vulnerable.
"We're just a job, Brooks." Her voice softens. "Don't forget the contract."
"Screw the contract."
I spin her, dipping her slightly, making her laugh. It's a real laugh, bright and clear, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.
Across the room, I see my mother watching us. She isn't scowling. She's smiling. And for once, I'm not performing for her.
I pull Ivy back up, holding her tight against my chest.
"You hungry?"
"Starving." She exhales. "I haven't eaten since that apple."
"There's a burger joint in town. Greasy. Cheap. No amber lighting."
Her eyes brighten. "Are you serious?"
"Yes."
"Can we leave?"
"We're the happy couple." I shrug. "We can do whatever we want. We'll tell them we're overcome with... emotion."
"Lust," she says, grinning. "Plays better."
I nod. "It does."
I take her hand, threading our fingers together, and steer her toward one of the side paths that cuts behind the hedges. No announcement. No audience. A clean exit the staff is trained not to question.
The party noise fades behind us as we cross the lawn at a brisk walk, the music dissolving into night air and cicadas. When we reach the small service drive, I signal to the on-call driver stationed there for exactly this kind of discretion. He opens the door without comment.
Ivy laughs as she slips off her heels and slides into the car, barefoot and unburdened. As we pull away, my phone buzzes again in my pocket. I don't look.
I glance at Ivy, flushed and radiant, hair loose, ring catching stray light.
My phone buzzes again. Three times. Four.
I reach down and turn it off.